Words
by Shichimon
Summary: Kale's restlessness during a lesson has consequences he could never have dreamt of. And so begins a quest that takes him far and wide across the land with his friends; a scholarly mole and a garrulous squirrel maid. A darkened Mossflower awaits!
1. Chapter 1

Always wanted to do a Redwall fanfic (Redwall copywrite Brian Jaques I assume, not me anyways) and, since I had nothing to do today, thought I'd give it a bash.

Notes: This is definately probably not connon – a grittier, darker Mossflower, there is heightened security at the abbey from what the books display, more human animals (I hope – I get so irked by the black and white characters of the actual series (how much of a dissapointment was Outcast?! Bang goes the whole nature/nurture debate of the redwall universe)). In case any one cares – there was a beaver in a redwall novel once (can't remember which) and I wished to use one here because I'm excited that beavers have been mating in the wild in Britain again :3 huzzah!

Oh, and forgive any gaping plot holes/shifting perspective/incontinuities of tense/rubbish characters. That said – Enjoy!

* * *

"Words, words, words." Muttered Kale, fiddling irritably with his quill whilst staring out of the dusty, filtered window.

"Is there a problem, Kale?" Recorder Arystwyth looked sharply in his pupil's direction as the small class tittered around them.

"No brother." Kale swiftly snapped back to attention. The tetchy old recorder was notorious for his tenacity when it came to discipline.

The old beaver began walking slowly towards the small field mouse whose tail began twitching nervously from side to side. "Strange, I'm sure I heard you say something...?"

Kale opened his mouth to deny it again when there came a small cough from behind him followed by a familiar but surprising voice saying: "It was me." He didn't need to turn around to know that that voice belonged to the head of the class, resident know-it-all Howarth; Kale's long-term rival and the last person he would expect to take a fall for him.

"Was it now?" The recorder was clearly sceptical but incapable of refusing a pupil actually owning up to trouble. "Then, novice Howarth, you can remain behind at the end and explain to me what was so important that you felt the need to disrupt my class."

The rest of the class passed in silence.

It wasn't until Kale was sat down for the evening meal in cavern hole when he saw Howarth again. He watched as the mole sheepishly sidled in through the door and helped himself to a pot of stew left by the servers for latecomers. He shuffled over to make room for his rival who took the hint and sat next to him.

"What do you want?"

Howarth simply smiled and broke off a chunk of nutbread from the basket nearest them. "Really, brother, why ever would I want something from you?"

"Don't give me that." Kale muttered, keeping his voice low to avoid unwanted attention. The other creatures were all chatting and laughing gaily but Kale knew how quickly they could pick up on an argument. "No beast willingly takes a punishment from 'Twyth, not unless he's got 'is own reasons."

Howarth said nothing but continued smiling. Kale drained the last dregs from his bowl and stood up forcefully. "Well, if you don't want anything, I'll take my leave, thanks."

"I'm planning something, tonight." Kale had to lean down slightly to catch the rest as his rival got quieter and quieter, "Don't sleep, I'll wake you at midnight."

They took their chance to sneak out of the dormitory as the great bells tolled to mark the darkest hour. They crept in silence down the winding stairs and scuttled across the great hall like thieves. Howarth led them to the oaken door that stood down a small stairwell on one side of the deserted space. He began patting his tunic, looking for something, and getting more and more frantic as it didn't turn up. Kale was already fed up of this venture. He and Howarth hadn't spoken since evening meal and he was starting to wish he'd taken the punishment off old Arystwyth instead.

"Looking for this?" A sweet, churlish voice rang out behind them, making them jump as it echoed round the cavernous stone walls.

"Abigail!" Exclaimed Kale watching slightly bemused as the tiny squirrel bounced up and down, dancing with the dust motes that swirled in shafts of moonlight streaming from the windows.

"Shhh!" Howarth glared angrily at both of them. "Abi," he hissed, "what do you think your doing?"

"I figured you'd need this!" She held up an old rusted key, "Since you went to all the trouble of stealing it!" She poked a small tongue out and leapt gracefully out the way as Howarth made a lunge for it. Kale recognised it as one of the spare keys kept by the elder brothers who were in charge of locking up the abbey at night in case of wondering young ones, such as themselves. He had to admit he was surprised at Howarth, he could never have imagined the fastidiously rule abiding, studious mole stealing anything.

"Give it back, Abi." Howarth held a paw out pleadingly, "Come on, I don't have time for games."

"No." She squeaked, folding her arms resolutely and grinning infuriatingly as the other two winced.

"Please!" He whispered.

"Well... All right. But!" Howarth eyed her suspiciously. "I get to come to!"

"No." Howarth refused outright.

"Please, Abi, we'll get caught." Kale interjected.

Abi gave a nonchalant shrug and, balancing the key on her nose, wondered off back towards the staircase leading to the dormitories. They exchanged glances.

"Fine," Said Howarth.

"But no talking." Kale agreed.

"Or... acrobatics." Howarth finished.

Within a bound she was at the door and turning the key in the lock with a satisfying 'click'.

The three miscreants sheltered behind a bush, away from the solitary pair of eyes that made up the night watch, slowly patrolling the outer wall.

"So what's this all about?" Kale could remain quiet no longer.

"I need a book." Kale looked at him incredulously. Abigail played with a beetle disinterestedly. Howarth held up a paw before Kale could complain.

"Let me explain. It's a recording. Summer of the rat." Kale shrugged, perplexed, until Howarth continued, "It's the season I arrived, long before you came."

Kale listened, intrigued. Though they were both roughly the same age, Kale had never felt anything in common with Howarth. They were both so different and had never gotten along. He realised now that, apart from his name and his fondness for all things academic, he knew nothing of his rivals past nor his thoughts.

"Howarth wants his parents, Howarth wants his parents!" Abi chanted to herself in a singsong voice.

"What do you know?" Howarth asked accusingly, giving her tail a sharp pull.

"I was here first, y'know!" She replied, cuddling her tail to herself "I remember, even though I was only a babe!"

"Do not." He argued.

"Do too. I remember your folks came a-knocking at the gate, you was just a dibbun and they left you here."

"They didn't!" Kale exclaimed wide-eyed, genuinely shocked at the thought of a creature just abandoning their offspring.

"Did." Sulked Abi.

"It wasn't like that." Howarth replied, "I remember it too, you know. I remember my mother giving a letter to old Holburn. He was recorder back then." He added at Kale's inquisitive glance. "I have to know what that letter says."

"I guess that's where we come in." Kale surmised.

"Who said anything about we?" Abi was still sulking.

"No one asked you to come anyway." Snapped Howarth, "Kale, I need you to help me. Arystwyth leaves his window open at night – I need you to climb in and open the door for me so I can have a look for the tome while you keep an eye on him."

"Won't 'Twyth notice if it's missing?"

"Don't be an idiot. Arystwyth has enough trouble with his own recordings, never mind those scribed seasons ago. Come on, let's go."

Kale stared wide-eyed at the sleeping recorder. The mouth was swung open and both drool and a slight rasping snore emitted from the gaping cavern within.

"He's just as scary when he's asleep." He muttered to Howarth who headed towards the study where the recordings were kept.

"Hist! Just think what he'll do if he wakes and finds us a-creeping in his room! Just make that cricket noise if he stirs to much."

"Right-o. But please do hurry!"

Kale's ears twitched at every slight scuffle from the recording room, every breeze that creaked the open window frame, but his eyes remained fixated on that gaping mouth. He felt like he had been standing there for hours but only minutes could have passed before a small voice said at his shoulder, "Wa-oh, he's just as scary when he's asleep!"

Kale froze, waiting with closed eyes until his heart stopped racing. He opened them again "I thought you weren't coming?"

"I changed my mind." The incorrigible squirrel slowly waltzed closer to the grey whiskered beaver.

"Don't!" Hissed Kale making a half motion to stop her but knowing he could never catch her. She giggled instead and crept closer. A floorboard creaked beneath her paws and they both took a sharp intake of breath. A breath filled with dust. Kale saw Abigail looked at him in shock as he gave one great, hacking cough.

Howarth gave a small satisfied smile as he gazed on the shelves upon shelves of recordings. Huge bound tomes detailing the events that occurred over the many cycles of seasons that the abbey of Redwall had lived through. He was glad that he knew exactly when he was looking for, it could take a beast seasons to look through it all. He could hear no sound from the other room and so approached where the most recent volumes were stored. This was easy enough to work out. Left was dust and cobwebs. Right was new binding and only a thin coating of dust.

Howarth counted back seven volumes and slowly, ever so slowly pulled it out. He lovingly opened the cover and smiled as he read 'Sumere off the Ratt' inscribed on the title page. He started to leaf through the pages, trying his hardest not to let his mind wonder from the task at hand as his eyes skimmed the pages trying to find any reference to him or his family. He froze as a loud cough came from the other room. It was followed a few seconds later by Kale's cricket impression before it was interrupted by a scream and Kale crying "Howarth! Help!"

"Abi!" Howarth exclaimed as he burst into the room, volume clasped to his chest. The old beaver had grasped the squirming squirrel by her arm and was advancing towards the twitching mouse, who was seemingly frozen to the spot. The recorder's head snapped to see who the latest rabble-rouser to disturb his sleep was.

"Oh Howarth," he grumbled, "I am surprised at you. What's...? Just hand me the book..." he held out one of his massive paws and began advancing on his star pupil who just held the book tighter "and I'll let all three of you go."

Kale glanced from one to the other, both staring resolutely and not giving an inch, and then at poor Abigail, stuck in the middle. She had never really been in trouble before. Orphaned when only a babe, the redwallers had taken her in and tended to turn a blind eye to her minor transgressions in return for her light and sprightly manner, although she had become somewhat spoiled as a result.

"Enough games!" The recorder snapped and began marching towards the mole "Those tomes are forbidden to you!" Without thinking, Kale's paw instinctively grasped the first thing it came to – a heavy brass candlestick. He leaped at the beaver and saw his arm as if in slow motion as it swung down on the recorders unprotected head.

Silence. A heavy thud as the brass hit the floor and rolled beneath the bed. The three youngsters looked at each other. Howarth, still as the grave; Abi with tears rolling down her usually smiling cheeks; Kale whose breath came in and out so quickly and sharply, in and out.

Without a word, they fled.


	2. Chapter 2

A soft, golden mist slowly filtered down the ancient, sighing trees. They had stood there as far back as the ancient stories told, and they had been considered ancient even then. A sprightly breeze ruffled the uppermost foliage while deep amongst the bracken and bramble, smaller rustlings were created as the small woodland birds went about their daily business.

One such bird, a plump, timid woodpigeon alighted on a rotting branch, one of many littering the forest floor. It flipped its head from side to side as its tiny brain attempted to come to terms with the strange collection of objects huddled at the base of a tall tree. Curiosity overcame its baser instinct to avoid all things it was unfamiliar with and the pigeon found itself hoping closer. It could just about discern the dusty red coat and bushy tail of a squirrel, jumbled up with a common field mouse and the sable fur of a black creature that it couldn't quite remember the name for, though it was sure it could if pressed. It delicately hopped closer until it could see the head of the squirrel and peered closely to see whether it was still alive. It blinked stupidly as a large brown eye opened slowly and wondered about blearily before focussing on the pigeon's own inquisitive pupil.

Three things happened at once, seemingly instantaneous. Abigail gave a short sharp scream; the pigeon, shocked into flight, clapped off in a flurry of feathers to a distant part of the wood; while Kale and Howarth knocked their heads together in their hurry to arise.

"What!? What?" Howarth peered around blearily looking for the raging vermin hordes he had been dreaming of, while Kale rubbed his head ruefully, taking in their surroundings.

Abigail sat down with a flump, and eyed her two companions; contemplating the chances that one of them was carrying a hot farl or two. Very slim, she concluded. "Well!" she exclaimed, clapping her paws together and jumping upright, not being able to help grinning as the mouse and mole jumped again, "As fun as this has been..." She begun to gaily skip past the duo but fell flat on her face as Howarth grabbed her tail before she could skip out of reach.

"Hold fast, missy!" he cried, "And just where do you think you're off to?"

"Back home, genius." she pouted from her new, earthly, position.

"Homes that-a-way," Kale interjected, pointing the opposite direction, "At least... I think it is." He trailed off, giving an apologetic shrug.

"You can't seriously want to go back already? Not after..." Howarth gave a half glance towards Kale who shifted uncomfortably where he stood and subconsciously rubbed the paw that had wielded the candlestick.

"You mean after you stole that book and Kale knocked out old 'Twythy?" Abi beamed, tactless as ever. The two older Redwallers shared a glance that contained an equal measure of hope and fear – had the recorder simply been knocked out? Or had Kale committed the unthinkable...?

---

Kale had to sit down; he couldn't think straight. He felt the colour had drain from his face as his eyes wandered unfocussed - all he knew was he couldn't return.

"So..." Abi swung onto her front and crossed her legs, pulling up bits of grass, "What's in that old book again?"

"Right!" Howarth exclaimed, glad for a change of subject, "I was hoping to see what happened to my parents... Ah! Here: Summer of the Rat: Last of the... the Moles..."

It was Abi and Kale's turn to exchange concerned glances. They had always found it curious that Howarth was the only mole residing at the Abbey, in the whole of Mossflower for all they knew. In all the old folk tales and legends there was often at least a mention of the creatures living in the area, sometimes entire tribes of them; the Burrhills, Straightfurrers, Tunellers, and no foremole had existed in Redwall since the Abbot's younger days.

Howarth had lapsed into silence, his mouth forming the words inscribed into the old pages. Abi sidled over until she could see over his shoulder, and begun to read out loud:

"Summer of the Rat: The Last of the moles.

Today is a sad day, the last known mole family in the area, the Loamers, have left to join the war in the East. They say a messenger came imploring them to join in an increasingly desperate attempt to end the war that has swept many of our woodland friends away. There is still no sign of our own Abbey warrior who had abandoned his home three seasons prior to this recording (note: see Summer of the Trout). He left against his own abbot's wishes and none can say what has happened to him. The abbot, a few select elders and I naturally kept this a secret from the abbey folk; there seemed no need to worry them about a distant war that has nothing to do with us. The war apparently involves a large mole clan, the Underhills, I believe, and since all moles are practically related they have all gone to help out their kin. They left a dibbun at the abbey, name of Howarth, too young to survive the journey let alone what waits them when they get there. I daresay he'll be an orphan before the turn of the season. The mother left a letter with me, to give to her son once he has come of age and is therefore able to join the rest of his family. Redwall, of course, is a bastion of peace – we could never give one of our charges something that could cause them to come to harm – and so I have left the letter, still sealed, within this tome; never to be opened."

The silence that followed was broken only by Howarth frantically flicking through the pages. A yellowish envelope slipped out noiselessly and drifted to the ground. He picked it up with a shaking paw and glanced at his companions. They replied with an encouraging nod and watched with baited breath as he broke the leaf shaped seal and began to read.

---

A small spark settled amongst the dried bracken and twigs, igniting a warm glow that illuminated Kale's satisfied smile. Abi sat close to the edge of the overhanging rock they were sheltering under and stared morosely at the rain pattering across the small outcrop of rocks they had discovered.

"Do you think he'll come back?"

"Of course he will, dope." Kale replied, kindly. "Now come sit by the fire; catch your death in this chill rain. He just needs to clear his head, is all." At least, he hoped that was all. The mole had left the recording in the shelter to protect it from the light spring drizzle that sprung up, veiling the ancient woodland in a light spray, shortly before disappearing into the mist.

"Always wondered what happened to old Rogir..." Abi crawled over to the warmth and flumped down, basking in its welcoming glow.

"That the name of the abbey warrior?"

"Aye, he left the season before you arrived. The abbot said he had gone visiting his family – but I never believed it. I saw him go, early on a cold, wet morning; the abbot cried and hugged him. Never heard of any war though."

"I have." Kale prodded the fire with a long stick. "My parents used to say that's why there were so many brigands roaming the country. The Guosim and otter tribes left to fight in some Eastern war and soon there weren't no one left to keep them in check."

"Is that what-"

"Here, he's back."

Howarth strolled over and calmly threw them some roots and leaves. "Burdock, primrose, nettles and dandelion." He explained with a laugh at Abigail's upturned nose. "Perfectly edible, Brother Hortense's treatise on foraging."

Abi cautiously glanced at Kale who was munching away with no apparent ill effects. She dived in.

"I've decided to go after them. My parents I mean."

"Immediately?" Kale raised an eyebrow.

"I have to find them... to help them... I've wasted so much time already! If I go back to the abbey they'll never let me leave!"

"Then we'd best get a move on afore they send someone after us."

"We?"

"You can't go by yourself. And I en't going back."

"Well, that's all very well but what about-"

"I can look after myself!" Abi had been watching the conversation like a tennis match and felt the need to assert her presence. "I can go back no problem! _I_ didn't do anything wrong!"

Howarth gave a world-weary sigh and replied, "There is no conceivable way we're leaving you on your own, you'll just have to come with us."

"We may meet travellers on the way," Kale interjected before Abi could start to moan, "they could surely take you back if it's on the way."

Abi crossly folded her arms and turned her head away to indicate the beginning of a long sulk, but was distracted by the sunlight bouncing off the rocks outside. "The rain's stopped!" She leapt up happily and danced around outside.

Howarth and Kale rolled their eyes at each other and carefully extinguished the fire. "We've still got a good half a day of light, I reckon. Where to?"

"The river Moss..." Howarth hesitated, peering, lost, into the dense forest surrounding their previous shelter.

"This-a-way." He indicated with an outstreached paw, "We'll hit it eventually if we keep heading Northwards." Kale strode in the direction towards which he had pointed, Howarth following close behind while Abi skipped lightly next to them.

---

Abbot Turril, gazed up at the huge tapestry adorning the wall before him, hands clasped carefully behind his back. Strong, late-morning sunshine streamed through the great windows, barely reaching halfway along the great hall. The elderly mouse stared into the eyes of the warrior depicted in the centre of the aging cloth. It brought him great piece to do this; all the other abbey dwellers were either outside or otherwise occupied with all the chores that spring delivered, leaving a calm still hanging over the worn, smooth, red stone.

A collection of creatures gathered around him, occasionally glancing at each other. One cleared her throat nervously.

"Mayhaps they're still lost, father." Hogwife Almonda dithered behind his shoulder, jumping as Recorder Arystwith slammed his arthritic fist on the small side table set next to the armchair he was currently wedged into.

"They've fled, I tell you. Young'ns today have no respect nor decency!"

"Now, now, Brother." Sister Almswhite reprimanded, focussed on renewing the bandages wrapped around the old recorders head. "You're in no state to be getting in a tiz about it. We'll just send out a search party, they'll bring 'em back sure enough. We can question them tomorrow about their actions – must have been some reason."

Arystwith grunted. "Fine then, but send Clecil and Roderick. That Kale's a troublesome one; he was the ringleader, I'm sure of it!"

"Very well." The slender mouse sighed. "But I must insist you lay down and rest for the remainder of the day." The recorder said nothing but stood and, after bowing to the abbot and shooing away any proffered assistance, made his way back to his Gatehouse. "Almonda and I shall send them straight away, Father." Almswhite curtsied, "Good day to you."

Turril slowly breathed out, disturbing the particles of dust that had settled on the iconic tapestry. The comforting silence had returned once more. Must have someone clean it, he thought idly to himself, the phrase 'no respect' wandering about his mind casually.

=-=

Author's note: Same apologies as the first chapter – if anything's horrifically inconsistant/just plain wrong feel free to tell me in the nicest way possible :D

Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter – sorry for the long wait, hope it was worth it :s a ha ha...

And, because I'm sure you'll be just as riveted by this 'fun fact' as my entire geography class and I once were: 'Dandelion' is derived from the French 'Dent de Lion' meaning, of course teeth of the lion!

Aren't you glad I told you that?

:3


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